


Charcoal sketches and watercoloured stars

by Eshnoazot



Series: Avengers prompt ficathon [4]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Gratuitous mention of art, much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey Cap," Clint seemed to have an intuitive ability to speak when someone needed to ground themselves, "Find yourself a secret admirer, huh?"</p>
<p>"Pardon?" Steve retorted in surprise as he seated himself and inspected the white box curiously. The top of the box bore a simple handwritten phrase 'Happy Birthday Captain Rogers.'</p>
<p>"I didn't know it was your birthday today," Clint announced, glancing towards Natasha, "We would have found you something nice. Like a nerf gun, or the declaration of independence."</p>
<p>"It isn't my birthday; I missed it while I was...out of action," He frowned and inspected the side of the box, "I still haven't figured out what age I should be celebrating when it comes around next year."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charcoal sketches and watercoloured stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfchasing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchasing/gifts).



The wide rectangular box was placed across his place-mat on the breakfast bar.

He didn't notice it at first, since it wasn't out of the ordinary that he found someone else's piles of mail spilled over onto his place-mat. Somehow the mail-room seemed to unanimously agree that sending the Avengers their mail in the morning was better for everyone's health, happiness and  _anger management,_ without understanding that at least half the Avengers met the criteria of hoarding.

But today there were no piles of Clint's junk mail (which Tony insisted upon calling  _'nest-building supplies'_ ), nor did any packages of conference transcripts or academic papers cover the bench. Only a solitary box decorated the bench, and the way that the other two occupants sent curious glances towards it was proof enough that it was addressed to  _him_.

It had been a long time since he'd received  _proper_  mail.

It was that fact that made the box unusual, considering that the extent of his mail these days were SHIELD paperwork, and assorted bureaucratic nonsense. 

After-all, dead men couldn't send mail.

With that painful thought, he cleared away the negative thoughts, banishing them like the way his SHIELD-issued Therapist had suggested with a peppy smile and the scent of bubblegum, and focused back on the  _NOW_.

"Hey Cap," Clint seemed to have an intuitive ability to speak when someone needed to ground themselves, "Find yourself a secret admirer, huh?"

"Pardon?" Steve retorted in surprise as he seated himself and inspected the white box curiously. The top of the box bore a simple handwritten phrase  _'Happy Birthday Captain Rogers.'_

"I didn't know it was your birthday  _today_ ," Clint announced, glancing towards Natasha, "We would have found you something nice. Like a nerf gun, or the declaration of independence."

"It isn't my birthday; I missed it while I was... _out of action_ ," He frowned and inspected the side of the box, "I still haven't figured out what age I should be celebrating when it comes around next year."

"Oh," Clint shrugged, "All the mail goes through Stark's security, so you don't have to be so paranoid. Plenty of people want Stark dead, and yet the guy is still walking around and urinating in public."

He shot the Archer a horrified, but not entirely doubtful, expression.

Clint grinned darkly, "Oh the things we SHIELD minions could tell you."

Steve shook his head to clear the contents of the last conversation from memory and opened the box, a smile shooting across his face as he slowly pulled the contents out.

"They're  _beautiful_ ," He breathed reverently. His hands found a smaller box first, and the sound of pencils banging against one another brought a smile to his face. Popping the top, he selected one and felt the smile grow at the feeling of the wood against skin, and the faint smell of cedar. He let out a laugh of delight, visibly brightening with every inhale and twirled the pencil between his long fingers with a content smile.

His hands moved back into the box, pulling out a soft-bound sketch book. he opened the page with a deep inhale and caressed the paper with clear sentimental care, " _Cream_..."

" _Book_ ," Clint helpfully added, earning a startled look from the Super Soldier.

"No," Steve ducked his head with a small smile, "Cream coloured pages. They give my sketches a nice feel, and well, sometimes sometimes staring at a white page makes my ideas disappear. They're too  _bright_  and  _chemical_."

"It's a moleskin," Natasha offered, receiving a concerned expression in turn, "Unrelated to the animal product."

He caressed the paper for a few seconds longer, before reluctantly placing it to the side and reaching back into the box with wide eyes. His fingers found one more object, which he lifted out with a hesitant expression, as if he didn't want the magic to end. Biting his lip, he inspected the wooden case and lifted the lid, letting out a choked whimper at the contents.

It was  _too much_.

His hands found movement where his lungs and mind couldn't, opening up layers of compartments and discovering more and more lines of _art,_ spinning him back further and further into a world where his lungs were frozen in _sheer disbelief._

" _Woah_ ," Clint exclaimed somewhere over his shoulder, in a far off world where there wasn't thousands of colours of pastels and pencils and watercolors and charcoal and brushes and things he had never even  _seen_  before.

His throat constricted and the corners of his eyes pickled with tears that wasted no time running down his cheeks in a way that made Clint back off for a second to let his teammate enjoy the sheer overwhelming emotions that crashed over him at the thoughtfulness of the gift. For a second he froze at the display of emotions, only to see relaxed smiles on the faces of both his teammates, free of judgement.

" _Who_?" He breathed, reaching towards the case but pulling back as if worried it was nothing but a mirage, " _Why me_?"

"Art nerd," Clint stage-whispered to Natasha, breaking the terrifying spell of  _too-too-much_ , "With his fancy artsy supplies _._ Someone found himself a sugar daddy.  _Stark_?"

"Tony would have attached his name," Natasha replied, with a deftly raised eyebrow "This is too low key for his tastes."

"There's no name attached to this," Steve announced, his voice cracking as it bordered on hysterics, "How can I express just how much this means to me if I don't even know  _who to thank_?"

Natasha considered him for a second, and reached out for the empty cardboard box, reading over the handwriting thoughtfully, "The writer was left handed, but it's improbable that the gift giver was also the writer, given that these supplies would need to be specially ordered via the internet. it's not implausible to conclude that the writer was likely to be a salesperson involved in the handling of goods. If it would make you feel more comfortable, I can investigate further."

Steve stared at her and noticeably swallowed, with a smile, "No, I-Thank you for the offer, but I don't think that's necessary."

The blond man's hands were shaking as he piled the supplies back into the cardboard box with an honored expression and a smile filled with wonder. Still shaking, he wrapped his arms around the box and left the room, stumbling over his feet as his voice muttered words that either of the two assassins could barely catch.

Natasha watched him leave, seeing his muttered plans of swirling charcoal sketches and vibrant watercoloured stars in her mind. Clint watched Natasha with an unreadable expression, that quickly turned into a sly smile.

"So, You can  _investigate_  further and make him more  _comfortable_ , huh?" Clint's voice dropped and his lips quirked, "You used to believe that love was for children."

"Who said anything about love?"

"Nat, I may see better at a distance," Clint paused to offer a gentle smile, "But I'm not _naive_. And I know you're not either."


End file.
